


Photo Booth

by TheNoctambulist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Exposition, Fluff, Literally all exposition, M/M, a really boring read so don't bother, but i'm a crap artist so, good stuff's at the end i recommend skipping, i literally just wanted to write a photobooth scene, no what i wanted was to draw this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24379816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNoctambulist/pseuds/TheNoctambulist
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley find a secondhand shop full of memories after one of their dinners, and also make some new memories there.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), God (Good Omens) & Other(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Photo Booth

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize in advance for the long exposition. (It's literally 80% exposition and 20% good stuff)

“Dear, you really _must_ stop doing this,” Aziraphale commented as he dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Honestly, you’re spoiling me.”

“I’ll gladly do it again and again, Angel,” Crowley replied, setting his hand on top of Aziraphale’s. “I do enjoy it so much, after all.”

“Oh, you serpent.” Aziraphale smiled lightly and gazed at Crowley, love in his eyes. Crowley, hand under his chin, grinned pleasantly back. 

“Well then. Where to next? Your bookshop? My apartment? Anywhere you want,” Crowley offered. 

Aziraphale considered the options. “Why don’t you and I take a walk?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows raised. “A walk?”

Aziraphale looked down. “We don’t have to, if you don’t like. I just figured, maybe we could stroll around Soho, possibly stop at my bookshop, or--”

“Angel, I’d love to.” Crowley stood and offered his arm to Aziraphale. “Shall we?”

Aziraphale accepted it with a grin. “We shall.”

The air outside the restaurant they had been dining in was chilly but not frigid. Aziraphale wrapped his tartan scarf around Crowley’s neck. 

“I keep telling you, you’re a snake. You’re cold blooded. You need more layers!” he fussed. Crowley shirked under his touch.

“Don’t worry, Angel, I’m _fine_ ,” he insisted, but he didn’t remove the scarf, and rather pulled it tighter around his neck.

Their hands found each other and they sauntered, through the hazy streets after dusk, enjoying each other’s company. The hours elapsed, and the sky grew steadily darker. 

“Oh, come _on_ , Gabriel does _not_ sound like that,” said Aziraphale, laughing, a good hour into their walk. 

“He does, Angel, you’re just too nice to say it,” Crowley insisted, chuckling along with him. 

“In any case, I believe--” Aziraphale was cut off when Crowley stopped and tugged on his arm. “What is it, dear?”

“Look.” Crowley pointed to the window of the store they had stopped in front of. Inside was a painting, done in impressionist styles, of two figures. 

Both were winged, but the stark difference between the ebony wings of the left and the alabaster ones of the right clearly separated them. They were dressed in simple shifts, one black to match his wings, the other white. They stood, foreheads touching and heads bowed. There was a certain intimacy between them, despite their contrasting hues. The expressions were unclear, made even more so by the vague streaks of paint that made up the style.

“Well. That’s certainly something,” Aziraphale said. 

“Something indeed.” Crowley turned to him. “I don’t know about you, but I quite like it.”

Aziraphale hummed in consideration. “I was always more a fan of realism. But I suppose there is a certain… beauty to it, if you will. Lovely colors used.”

“Mmm,” Crowley murmured in agreement. “Do you want to-- I don’t know, pop in for a bit?”

“Why not?” Aziraphale replied. “I’ve always loved exploring shops like this. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this one before, though. Maybe they’ll have books!” He lightened at the prospect and bounded towards the door, the bell tolling daintily as he opened it. He held it as Crowley strolled in, and then followed him through the narrow entryway.

The shop was evidently some sort of secondhand store; piles upon piles of knickknacks were shelved in no particular fashion all around the rooms. It wasn’t just vintage items; the items looked to be from as long ago as two hundred years to as recent as yesterday. Dimly lit glass lamps hung from the ceiling. 

Aziraphale felt immediately at ease. He was reminded slightly of the bookshop; both locations had the same warmth and homey clutter that appealed to everyone right away. 

“Blimey, it looks like an attic on steroids in here,” Crowley said. “Who d’you think would own a place like this?”

“Evidently someone whom I would get along with,” replied Aziraphale, who had just spotted a stack of books, bound and embossed. “I wonder if any of those are first editions?” His hands itched to find out. “Pity I don’t have my gloves with me.”

Crowley scoffed. “You’ve got plenty of first editions back at the shop. Don’t see why you need more.” Still, he followed as Aziraphale made his way over to the shelf.

“They’re in quite good condition-- ohh, that’s a _classic_ , though I don’t recall people talking about it much… I remember reading this when it came out!” Aziraphale went through each book, giving Crowley a detailed explanation of what he knew about it and how. Crowley found himself grinning. 

“And _this_ one was really quite boring, though the author herself really was a darling. I couldn’t bring myself to keep a copy in the bookshop, I didn’t want others to happen upon it and be subjected to it.” 

“Tell me, Angel, have you read _every_ book in existence?” Crowley picked one from the stack and examined it.

Aziraphale glanced up. “Well, no, but one does have a lot of time on one’s hands when one is alive for thousands of years.” He took the book Crowley was holding. “Now _that_ one is a page turner. I couldn’t put it down when I--”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” a spritely voice said behind them. “Can I do anything for you?”

Crowley and Aziraphale turned and were faced with a small, elderly woman with cropped hair. She smiled kindly at them.

They exchanged glances, and then Aziraphale spoke. “I hope you don’t mind too terribly if we're here. We saw that you were still open. We’re just browsing.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” she replied, speaking again in a tone that seemed much too young for her face, but somehow carried the certain entitled tone of the elderly. “I was just cleaning in the back, and thought I heard voices. If you need anything, just ring the bell on the counter.” She gave them a knowing smile and vanished into the clutter.

Aziraphale gave a bemused look in Crowley’s direction, then to another corner of the store. He smiled. “Look, Crowley,” he said. “They have records.”

There was indeed a rather large collection of vinyls in one section. Crowley stalked over. “I don’t have a record player,” he reminded Aziraphale. “But maybe I could find a Queen one for you. I still can’t believe you don’t have any Queen.”

Aziraphale tutted and turned back to his books. “Well, you do play it rather loudly. I can hear you whenever you pass by.”

“Really?” Crowley looked up over his sunglasses, eyebrows raised. 

“No, that was a joke,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t have one because it’s not my type of music. See if they have any Beethoven, though. I could use some more.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but still began to search through the piles. 

“Here’s an _actual_ bebop record, if you want,” he called over to Aziraphale, who still had his nose deep in the books.  
“No _thank you_ , Crowley, I told you. Not my kind of music.” By then, Aziraphale had finished with the books and was going further into the store. “I wonder what _else_ we can find in here.”

Crowley crept along behind him. “Probably a few dead animals,” he muttered, eyes scanning the shelves alongside him. 

They ventured deeper into the store, occasionally stopping to reminisce over an item or two they remembered from their pasts. 

“What is _that_?” Aziraphale said eventually, as they passed a somewhat large contraption, about the size of an extremely large refrigerator.

“S’a photo booth, I think,” Crowley answered, stepping forward, opening the curtain, and peering inside. “It takes photos.”

“Well, I gathered _that_ from the title,” Aziraphale replied, brushing at his coat. “How does it work?” He peered at it, interested.

“Think you put change or something in it, then it takes a couple pictures. Nothing special, really.”

“It sounds _magnificent_! Humans have advanced with photography quite a bit, haven’t they!” 

“Suppose so, yeah,” Crowley said, already wandering away. Aziraphale tugged him back.

“We should try it!” His eyes were wide and pleading.

“Angel, no.”

“If you don’t, I’ll never take you up on another lunch offer.” Aziraphale smoothed his lapels indignantly. 

“Liar,” Crowley hissed, but he followed Aziraphale into the booth. They sat down, and stared at the screen in front of them. 

“...Do you have change?” Aziraphale asked after a few moments. 

“Just miracle some!” Crowley replied.

Aziraphale gasped. “What kind of crook do you take me for? I would _never_ miracle money. Does _terrible_ things to the economy, let me tell you.”

Crowley groaned and fished in his pocket, extracting a few coins, inspecting them, and then inserting them in the machine. He pressed start. Immediately the screen shifted to brief instructions that flashed off as quickly as they came.

“What do we do?” Aziraphale asked. 

“See, it’s counting down,” Crowley added. “It said we get five pictures.” He pulled a face, tongue out, and Aziraphale looked confused. 

“It just took the first one,” he explained. Aziraphale looked shocked. 

“Really? Well! I wasn’t ready _at all_!” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Watch the screen, Angel, it’ll tell you when to go.” The screen was counting down again. Crowley peered over his sunglasses at Aziraphale, who adopted a somber expression as the camera clicked.

“Angel, this isn’t the nineteenth century. No one looks sad in photos anymore.”

Aziraphale perked at this news. “Oh, really?” He grinned. “Is this better?”

Crowley threw his head back and laughed as the photo took. “Immensely.” 

“Oh, this is fun!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He clapped like a small child. “So many poses! You said we had five?” Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale glanced at the timer, which was already counting down. He pursed his lips, and as it reached one, he swooped in and kissed Crowley.

Crowley’s eyes widened to twice the size they had been before. Aziraphale’s mouth lingered for at most five seconds before breaking away, but Crowley had found eternity in that moment. The camera started to count down for the final picture, but he didn’t notice. He flushed as the camera clicked for the last time, staring shocked at Aziraphale’s smug smile. 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, sounding extremely pleased, “shall we see how those turned out?”

“Ngk,” was all Crowley could get out. His stiffened and lanky limbs somehow found a way out of the trap that was the photo booth, which had seemingly increased dramatically in temperature since he had gotten in. 

Aziraphale looked at the lineup of photos and hooted. “Dear, these are marvelous.”

Crowley took them with a shaky hand and studied them. The first three were normal enough, featuring his careless, silly face and Aziraphale’s confused expression. In the fourth and fifth panels, however, his self-assuredness had completely vanished. His sunglasses were askew, his face red, and his eyes big as Aziraphale kissed him, and remained so in the last picture. Aziraphale, meanwhile, was sporting a frustratingly adorable and cocky grin. 

Crowley cleared his throat. “You could have given me a warning, Angel.”

Aziraphale shrugged. “They’re candid.” He took the strip back from Crowley and concentrated. Soon there was another copy in his other hand. “For you,” he said while offering it to Crowley.

“I’ll treasure it forever,” Crowley said, voice thick with sarcasm. 

Aziraphale gave him a sharp glance. “I should jolly well hope so. It _was_ very fun, after all.”

“Indeed,” Crowley replied. He rolled his eyes, and took Aziraphale’s arm. “Well, Angel?”

Aziraphale had taken out his pocketwatch and looked at it. “Goodness, it’s been nearly four hours since dinner. Do you fancy a nightcap at the bookshop?”

“Sure, why not?” Crowley said, leading him through the aisles around all the clutter. 

When they exited, they were reminded of the painting that had first drawn them in. They stood, holding hands, in front of it. The night was dark and cold, and their breath fogged the glass. 

“Do you… want it?” Aziraphale eventually asked. He looked at Crowley questioningly.

Crowley considered. “Nah,” he replied finally. “I have enough art on the walls. Besides,” he added, looking down at his pocket where his photo strip was held, “I have better pictures.”


End file.
